The Crackfic Compendium
by chisscientist
Summary: Number Five: DS al fine. The compendium will eventually contain a selection of AUs, crossovers, and pure crackfic.
1. In the Grey Room

Disclaimer: Based on the Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien. I am not Tolkien. I am doing this purely for fun, and make no money doing so.

This chapter's existence can be blamed on a conversation between Uvatha the Horseman and I about putting characters in bizarre situations just to see what they'd do, and about what Gil-galad and Sauron might say to each other.

* * *

Gil-galad came to awareness slowly. The first thing he noticed was that he was lying on a hard surface. The surface was grey, smooth, and featureless, as well as being hard and cool as stone. He opened his eyes, without making any further movement.

The room he lay in was much the same - grey and featureless, without any furnishings or other signs of use. There was a feeling of present evil to it, causing Gil-galad to wish fervently that he had a weapon with him. Gil-galad wondered exactly where he was. He didn't recognize it as being anywhere in Mithlond, and he'd never been given to sleepwalking. He was still in his nightshirt, for crying out loud! He sat up.

"I see you are awake now," said a clear voice behind him in Adunaic. Gil-galad whipped his head around, to find himself looking into a pair of cat-slitted golden eyes in a handsome mortal-like face.

"Sauron!" Gil-galad whispered, jumping to his feet and wheeling around to face his foe in a fighting stance. "What have you done?"

"Nothing," said Sauron. "I was hoping you could tell me where we are, and how to get out."

Gil-galad stared at him. Sauron was wearing a pair of drawstring pants and a loose shirt open at the neck. He was barefoot, and bore no weapon Gil-galad could see. Gil-galad also realized that one of the things he hadn't seen while looking around was a door or a window. He was locked in a room with Sauron the deceiver.

"but I see you're just as confused as I," Sauron continued. "A pity."

They stood there and looked at each other. The whole situation made no sense, and Gil-galad found himself with no idea what to do next. He'd love to kill the vile monster in front of him, but Sauron outweighed him by a large amount. If it turned into a wrestling match, he would be the one who would die.

Sauron was staring at him with an expressionless face. Gil-galad stared back. Some indeterminate time later, Sauron broke eye contact. "This is pointless," he said.

"Truly," said Gil-galad. "But it isn't as if there is much else to do."

"You have one of the elven rings, don't you?" said Sauron.

Gil-galad shrugged. "I'm not going to tell you either way, now am I? Why are you so determined to conquer the world?"

"Because it's there," said Sauron. "And it's untidy."

Gil-galad raised his eyebrows. "You could always stick to keeping Mordor tidy. There's more than enough work in running a kingdom without trying to expand it into an empire. Less risky, too."

"I am a maia. I have time."

"Take up a hobby! Singing, playing soulle, forging ornamental ironwork, building improbably high towers. I'm sure you can find something with which to fill your hours, and we'd ALL be the happier for it."

"Your happiness has never been my priority."

"I'd noticed." They glared at each other.

"Why do you persist in resisting the inevitable?" said Sauron. "Just acknowledge me as your overlord, and I'll leave you in place. Your people won't have to experience the horrors of conquest. I already rule Numenor in all but name, as well as most of the East and South."

"No."

Sauron sighed.

"You didn't seriously think I'd agree to that, after all you have put my people through?" said Gil-galad.

"No, but I wanted to see what you'd do."

Gil-galad rolled his eyes.

Sauron smiled back. "You do realize that for all that we have been enemies for thousands of years, we have scarcely met in all that time? You don't even know who you're hating."

"I hate the person who had my great-uncle killed, who drove my father nigh unto madness, who tortured and murdered Celebrimbor, and who has killed far too many of my people over the centuries. Do you honestly believe that a few lies and a sweet smile can paper that over?"

"It worked with Pharazon."

"I'm not Pharazon."

"Indeed, you are not. More's the pity," said Sauron, his lip curling. "You could have been so useful to me, if you weren't so bloody stubborn."

"You could have done much good, if you had not turned to evil. Why did you do it?"

"The world was untidy, and I wanted to help Melkor reorganize it. I was bored under Aule, and Melkor promised me power." Sauron grinned. "I got it, too, more than any other maia in Ea."

"Power's a pain in the neck half the time," said Gil-galad. "It means being the one responsible for fixing any mess that happens, whether or not that is actually possible, and being blamed if you fail. And then fools who don't understand the price may try to take it away from you."

"I'd happily lift that burden from you if you're sick of it," said Sauron, smirking.

"Thanks, but no thanks," said Gil-galad. "Why do you love power so much? You've held it long enough to understand what a cursed bauble it can be."

Sauron shrugged. "Perhaps the difference is that you care about each one of your people, and you want them to be happy. You want to be loved. I don't care if they hate me so long as they do what I tell them. It's a much easier path."

"Is it really? Assassinations, coups, inability to trust any around you, constantly afraid to ever show any sign of weakness, the knowledge that people tell you whatever they think you want to hear, having to kill those you called friend – up until you betrayed them..."

"Perhaps you couldn't live like that, but for me it is all part of the game. Keeps me on my toes. And I have no friends, only tools." Sauron snorted.

Gil-galad shook his head. "Eru help me, but I pity you."

Sauron flushed with rage, and then suddenly laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound at odds with his voice. "I pity you. Once I have finished with Numenor, I will take your people and shatter them like a flawed sword. All your proud and noble sentiments will come to an end then, when I have you at my mercy, for I will have none. You will yearn for death, but not find it. My thrall and my toy you shall be. All who see you will shudder in horror at your fate.

"You really don't like being pitied, do you?" said Gil-galad.

Sauron lunged at Gil-galad.

Gil-galad dodged sideways, but not quite far enough. Sauron's hand grabbed the sleeve of his nightshirt in a grip of iron. Gil-galad spun, lashing out with his foot. He felt it impact, and heard his nightshirt rip.

Then everything disappeared in fire. Fire in the sky, his hands, his throat, and he could not breathe. He struggled but was blacking out…

Gil-galad sat upright, gasping for breath and glancing wildly around him. It was his own bedchamber, with the familiar hangings, the window open a tad to catch the breeze from the sea. A dream, it was only a dream. Thank Eru for that!

Gil-galad got up to go and look out the window, but suddenly noticed that he was naked. He had been wearing a nightshirt when he'd gone to bed that night. Gil-galad shivered, and the nightmare took on a darker aspect. In some respects at least, it had been real.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the palace at Armenelos, Sauron awoke with a hiss of pain and the feeling the wind had been knocked out of him. He pressed his hand to his shoulder as he stared up at the ceiling. His breathing calmed as he realized where he was, and that the pain in his shoulder and arm had vanished. Just a dream, but what a strange one.

Sauron felt something in his hand, and sat up to look at it. It was a torn nightgown of fine linen, with an emblem of white stars on a blue field embroidered at the throat and cuffs. Sauron frowned at it. It looked just like the one Gil-galad had been wearing in the dream. And for that matter, there was a dull pain in his stomach where Gil-galad had kicked him.

Granted that Maiar minds tended to overwrite their bodies, but this was ridiculous. He went to drop the torn fabric, then sniffed it instead. It smelt faintly of elf. Sauron hurled it across the room, though it fluttered to a halt somewhat shy of the far wall. Ridiculous. He turned over and went back to sleep.

But when he got up in the morning, the offending item was still there.


	2. To Break an Oath

**For the Which Story Should I Write Contest**

A/N: This is the first of several first chapters to stories I might write. I haven't decided which one(s) to continue yet, as I'm hoping for input from those of you reading, as to what you think of them and which ones you'd most like to see continued. If you like it and want it continued, tell me so.

All potential stories to pick from will have 'For the Which Story Should I Write Contest', at the top.

* * *

 **To Break An Oath**

 **Chapter One: Blame the Tent Pegs**

Sneaking into camp proved easier than Maglor had thought it might. They had already passed the guards, and were nearly to the Vanyar section of the encampment. Maglor looked up at his brother beside him. Maedhros was an imposing figure even hunched over, his bright hair smeared with dark mud, and both it, and the stump of his wrist hidden inside an equally muddy cloak. He was a darker shadow against the shadow of the night. Maglor shivered. Something would go wrong, he just knew it.

It was a tent peg, and some rope, of all things. How very unpoetic.

Maedhros tripped over it, falling with a clatter into a set of pots and pans left out to dry.

Suddenly everyone around was looking at them. "Are you hurt?" asked an elf in Ingwion's livery, reaching out to help him up. Maedhros jerked away, ducking behind Maglor as he rose, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The elf's eyes widened at the sight.

"No, no, I'm unharmed," said Maedhros, bowing his head to hide his face.

"You'll have to pardon him, we've but recently come into camp and he suffered much in the war." said Maglor. "Easy there," said Maglor, putting a hand on his brother's arm as Maedhros released the sword. "There are no orcs here."

"You're Exiles, aren't you?" said another elf in Arafinwe's livery. He looked vaguely familiar to Maglor, though Maglor couldn't place him. He peered at Maglor, who ducked his head further inside his own hood. "Do I know you?" he asked.

"I doubt it," said Maglor. "I spent much of my time in Aman in the north."

"No, I'm sure I've seen you before. Weren't you one of Elemmire's friends? The one with the superb bass singing voice. What's your name?"

Maglor froze. _Of all the times to run into a fan…_

"Do you know if we're anywhere near the Exile's section?" asked Maedhros in a hopeful tone of voice.

"That's over the far side of the camp! You must be completely lost. Let me give you a hand in finding the way." said the Vanya elf.

Maglor winced at the unfortunate pun, but said, "If you could just tell us the direction…"

"No, let me show you the way." He continued in a lower voice. "Your friend seems a little unstable. I wouldn't want any misunderstanding to happen. Someone could get hurt."

They started in the direction of the Exile's section. Hopefully Maedhros would find a way to be rid of this overly-helpful soul without anyone having to die. _Bloody silmarils._ Their shining light, and the terrible oath, was leading them straight to another killing, and their own deaths.

They were nearly to the Exile's section when they came to a set of latrines, and Maedhros said he needed to pee.

"I should probably use it as well," said Maglor, taking the hint. "Thank you very much for escorting us. I know where we are now. I can see young Gil-galad's banner on the big rise on the left, next to the lantern."

The elf nodded. "Well, I shall let you go then," he said. "I hope you and your friend will find peace on Tol Eressea."

Maglor gave him a smile that did not reach his eyes, and thanked him, knowing that such would not be their fate. They entered the latrine. Just in case anyone was listening, both of them used it. Then they left, heading towards the Vanyar section of camp. A shadow detached itself from a nearby pavilion, resolving itself into the elf of Arafinwe's army they'd seen earlier. They both tensed.

"Funny," said the elf. "I thought you were looking for the Exile's section. You're going the wrong way, Maccalaure Feanarion."

A couple of elves turned to stare at them, and more ran out of the tents, weapons in hand.

Someone reached for Maedhros' hood, only to be punched in the stomach, then knocked flat by a kick to the knee.

A couple of people screamed.

Maglor drew his sword, and spun so he was back to back with his brother, whose hood had flown back, revealing mud-caked hair that gleamed copper in the torchlight wherever the caked mud had fallen off. "On my mark, run left," whispered Maedhros.

Inside Maglor, something snapped. He reached for his brother's hand and twisted it roughly. The sword fell from Maedhros' hand, clanging as it hit the ground.

Maedros looked at him with eyes full of shocked betrayal. "Stop!" bellowed Maglor, dropping his own sword to the ground. "We surrender to the justice of the Valar." Sudden silence fell.

* * *

A/N: Replies to people not logged in:

suryaruc: I see Sauron as being a control freak. He has a psychological need to be in charge, and have control over everything and everyone around him. By untidy, he means it's out of his control, and people are choosing things he wouldn't choose. I'm glad you like Gil-galad. My version of him is partly an effort to figure out what a genuinely good leader would look like under those circumstances, and what his experiences and the choices he's had to make have done to him.

Guest: I have already done a Mary Sue parody set you might enjoy. It's called 'The Many Fates of Mary Sue'.


	3. Of Inventions and Daddy Issues

**Of Inventions and Daddy Issues**

 **Chapter 1: The Illegal Alien**

For the 'Which Story Should I Write' Contest

* * *

Celebrimbor admired the Ring he had crafted as it lay in the palm of his hand, shining brightly golden with an emerald set amidmost. "Well, aren't you going to test it out?" asked Annatar, a challenging smirk on his face.

"Of course," said Celebrimbor, and set it on his finger.

The world shifted, and NOT in the way it was supposed to! The last familiar thing he saw was Annatar's face, now wearing an alarmed expression, and his hand, reaching for him. Then there was a kaleidoscope of color and sound, buffeting Celebrimbor beyond comprehension, and beyond bearing. He passed out, collapsing on the cracked asphalt.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a land called the USA, Tony Stark looked up as Bruce Banner entered the lab.

"I'm getting an interesting gamma ray burst," said Banner. "It looks a little like a bifrost signal, and a little like when Loki turned up to steal the tesseract."

"But not exactly like either?" asked Tony. "Where was it, and have you told the capsicle yet?"

"Some place called Darrington in Washington State, and no, I thought I'd see what we can find out before we pester Rodgers. It's pretty small, and it's already stopped. If I wasn't looking for things of that kind, I wouldn't have noticed it."

"Never heard of the place. Jarvis, pull Bruce's data up on the screen, and tell me what you know about Darrington, stat."

Tony's AI spoke: "Yes sir. Darrington: population 1,347 in the Stillaguamish valley, Snohomish county, Washington state. The economy is based mainly on timber harvesting and outdoor recreational tourism. There is a new craft brewery, and the town is also unofficially known for its illegal whiskey distilling…" Tony scanned the blip on the graph while listening to Jarvis's account of a blip-on-the-map called Darrington. At least the place had booze. That was something.

"Get me some satellite pics of the location," Tony said.

"Will do, sir." said Jarvis.

Bruce looked skeptical.

"Come on, you know I hacked the spy satellite system when I was fifteen," said Tony.

"Any ideas why our visitor would want to visit Darrington?" asked Bruce.

"Probably trying to avoid notice. Unless he stopped in for a drink."

"The pictures are ready, sir."

The pictures showed someone with long dark hair and medieval-ish clothing, standing in the middle of the road, and fiddling with something small he was holding in one hand. A couple with a small child was standing on the sidewalk gawking at him, but he didn't seem to have noticed.

"I'm calling Rodgers. He needs to see this, and I think we need the others as well." said Bruce.

"Go ahead," groaned Tony. "Why can't Asgard keep their juvenile delinquents to themselves? I'll head on out. You get the others. Jarvis, I'll need the suit." He began getting into the Iron Man suit.

"I have requested Captain Rogers, Black Widow and Hawkeye to come here, sir. Thor is unavailable due to being on Asgard."

"Shame, but we'll manage without Point Break. Tell the Captain I'll keep him informed via Jarvis." Tony powered up and headed out his special exit.

Unfortunately, even with the suit's speed it was going to take a while to reach Darrington, since it was over near the other coast of the USA. He could keep tabs on their target via Jarvis, so he did.

The presumed-Asgardian was very interested in the device, and barely raised his head to look around a couple of times while the local people pointed at him. The funniest part was when a car came rolling down the street. The man turned to stare at it, gawked as if he'd never seen a car before, then ran out of the road, over the sidewalk and – get this – scrambled up on top of the Overwaitea foods store. He stood looking at the car from there. After a minute or so, he went back to fiddling with the device.

Tony opened a channel to others now following in the quinjet. "Hey Cap, you've been watching the video?"

"Yes Stark, we have."

"Looks like our visitor's less homicidal than Loki. Nice turn of speed on him when pushed, though."

"His climbing skills aren't bad either." added Barton.

"We can't be sure of his intentions yet," said Romanoff. "Can you make out anything more about that device?"

"Sorry, that townlet's deficient in cameras to hack into, and the satellite images won't go that small. It might be connected to whatever device he used to get here, though. Are we even sure he wanted to go to Darrington? He doesn't seem very interested in the place when he's not about to get run over."

"You mean he might just be lost?"

"Don't know. I want a look at that device he's fiddling with, though, once we've arrested him." said Tony.

"A citizen's arrest, then. What are we arresting him for?" said Rogers.

"Being an illegal alien!" said Tony.

"Can you be serious for five minutes, just once when we're on a mission?" said Romanoff.

"Well he IS illegally on American soil AND he's an alien." said Barton. "I'm with Tony on this one."

"One of you Americans can make the arrest, then. I don't really care about your country's border laws." said Romanoff.

"I'll do it!" said Tony.

Some time later, Tony reached Darrington. Hoping not to alarm their target, he came down on the street about two blocks from the grocery store, and started walking. The downside of the Iron Man suit was that this wasn't exactly silent. Clank, clank, clank…

By the time he was next to the Overwaitea, the target had stuck the device in a pocket of his leather apron, and was staring at him. He didn't actually look much like Reindeer Games from this angle. His hair was dead straight, and much too long. Plus he couldn't imagine Loki would be seen dead wearing a battered and slightly singed leather apron like the one this guy had on. No armor or large weapons, either. He did have a small dagger with an intricately worked hilt, plus some small tools. Some nice workmanship on the knife. Had he made it himself?

Tony flipped the visor of his suit up. "Well hello there," yelled Tony. "Why don't you get off the roof so we can talk?"

The man looked at him and frowned. Tony tensed. The man said something – in a language Tony didn't even recognise. _WTF? At least Loki spoke English! So did Thor._

"You getting that, Jarvis? What language is that?"

"I do not know, sir. It matches no files for any known earth language, although it appears to fall within the indo-european language family. It is unlike the chitauri tongue, or the few unfamiliar words asgardians have been known to use."

"Damn," said Tony. Just when he thought he'd got it figured out. Maybe this guy wasn't an Asgardian.

" _Bonjour, parlez-vous francais_?" tried Tony. No answer. " _Guten tag. Sprechen Sie deutsche_?"

The man spoke again, but it continued to be unrecognizable, and it definitely wasn't French or German. Tony kept trying, gradually working his way through greetings in every language he, or Jarvis, could think of.

The man appeared to be doing much the same, since sometimes it was a different kind of unrecognizable than others. Then he burst into song.

Tony gawked, and then started laughing. "We're not in a musical, buddy. I don't think that's going to help." he said.

After a few more bars, the man stopped. He sighed in obvious exasperation, muttering something under his breath.

That was when the quinjet decided to turn up. Their guest stared up at it, his face paling, and his eyes wide as saucers. "Back off, you're scaring him," Tony muttered to the others on the quinjet. "He's not Asgardian, and I don't think he's seen a plane before." The plane backed off, coming down a couple of streets away.

"Tony Stark," said Tony, thumping the suit's breastplate. "You?" he pointed at the stranger.

The man blinked, then thumped his own chest. "Celebrimbor Curufinwion," he said.


	4. Welcome to the Fish Bowl

**Welcome to the Fish Bowl**

A/N: This takes place in an alternate universe where Sauron returned to Valinor with Eonwe to seek the pardon of the Valar. Please note, Aiwendil is more usually known as Radagast, and Curumo as Saruman.

* * *

It was all Aiwendil's fault really, Sauron told everyone later. He had been the one to give Sauron the original stock.

It happened once Sauron had been allowed out of Mandos for about a year. He'd been living in Aule's halls, still confined to his room whenever he was not working or under another Maia's supervision. As a result, he'd gotten stultifyingly bored. Books rapidly start losing their luster when they're all there is to do.

So when Aiwendil arrived at his door and knocked, saying "open up! I know you're in there, and I have a present for you," Sauron opened the door and let him in.

Aiwendil was carrying a 5-gallon jar made of greenish glass. It was filled with water, and had a couple of aquatic plants floating in it. Sauron eyed it with alarm.

"Aiwendil, that's very nice of you, but I really haven't your fondness for greenery," said Sauron.

"I know," said Aiwendil, "but that's not the point. Can you show me where you want to put it?"

"Not until you explain why you're giving me a big jar full of pond water," said Sauron.

Aiwendil huffed, and made to place it on top of a valuable treatise on the ideal carbon content of steel for different tools.

Sauron whisked the treatise out of harm's way, glaring. "Okay, what is it?" he asked.

"It is a fish jar," said Aiwendil. "Do you see the little fish swimming around in there?"

Sauron peered more closely at the jar. There were indeed little fish.

"I call them millions fish," said Aiwendil, "because they are very enthusiastic about breeding. The males are really colorful, and the females birth live young."

"Very nice," said Sauron. "But I still don't understand why you're giving it to me. Wouldn't Yavanna appreciate it more?"

"You need a hobby, so that you don't end up murdering Mahtan or Curumo from frustrated boredom. Did I mention that the color patterns are hereditary?"

Sauron paused. It was true he hadn't played with genetic manipulation and selective breeding of anything since Angband. And he was bored. These 'millions fish' might be silly little things – he watched a brightly-colored male as it chased a larger grey female around a stem of water plant - but they were also harmless. Unlike orcs and werewolves, nobody was likely to object to him breeding pretty little fishes.

"You might be right," said Sauron. "Thank you, Aiwendil, I believe I have acquired a hobby.

Aiwendil beamed. "I think you'll enjoy it. This is how you care for them…" after a discussion of required food and water chemistry, Aiwendil was out the door and skipping merrily down the hall, whistling something that sounded like some kind of bird as he he went.

Sauron shook his head as he locked the door, and sat down on the bed. He tapped his finger on his chin, watching his new fish and thinking of what traits he might like to select for.

* * *

A/N: Sauron may blame Aiwendil, but I blame my tropical fish habit. 'Millions fish' are more often called guppies.


	5. DS al fine

**DS al fine**

A/N 1: For the 'Which Story Should I Write?' contest. If you like it, let me know.

* * *

 **Chapter One: Not What I Expected**

Maedhros hadn't been sure what to expect from death. He'd assumed he'd either find Namo glaring down his nose at him, or that the 'everlasting darkness' would turn out to be an end to his existence. He'd been hoping for the latter, in all honesty.

Instead, there was light, and lots of it. Nothing but light. Then a still, small, voice that didn't need to be loud to have his entire attention.

"Maedhros Russandol," it said.

"Yes, my Lord?" said Maedhros. It was probably Lord Namo or another Vala, and being polite couldn't hurt.

"Nay, child, I am not one of your Valar. I am Eru. You are in the Timeless Halls," Eru said.

"Oh," said Maedhros, feeling very small. Why was this happening to him, of all people? After everything he'd done. Eru was surely furious with him, if he cared about him at all.

"Do you regret taking the Oath of Feanor, and your actions in its pursuit?" asked Eru.

"Yes," said Maedhros quietly. The whole business had been hopeless from the start, and had brought his family nothing but ruin. Even the Silmarils had rejected them in the end.

"Then you have a choice. You can cease to exist, as you were hoping when I brought you here. You can report to Namo. Or, you can go back and do things differently this time round."

"I don't understand," said Maedhros. "How is that possible? Once part of the music has been played, surely it cannot be played again. Beyond that, I have always been told our fates are set out in the music before we are ever born."

"You are familiar with the musical term DS al fine?" asked Eru.

"I have Maglor as a brother," snapped Maedhros. "It means go back to the sign, and from then to the end."

"Exactly," said Eru. "The music has a potential repeat with second ending here. What would you do differently, if you could?"

"Not swear that – the Oath," said Maedhros. "Not rely on Caranthir's judgement of Ulfang and his sons. Not kill any elf over the Silmarils. Not trust Father to go back for Fingon and Fingolfin, or to behave rationally after he loses Grandfather and the Silmarils. Not attempt to treat with Morgoth to retrieve a Silmaril, then get my people killed, and myself captured for use as a hostage. Try to talk Maglor and Amrod at least out of taking the Oath."

"Do you want to do this, then?" asked Eru.

Maedhros hesitated. Would he be strong enough to resist his father's madness on that terrible night? Could he endure all that grief and pain over again? The darkness seemed to beckon. It would be easier. But when had he ever refused to undertake a task because it was hard? This was his mess to right, if he could.

"Why are you offering me this?"

"Because I am not fully in agreement with the Valar's actions – though that does NOT mean I support yours, or Feanor's, let alone Melkor's. Know this: I never held you to your oath. I would rather you had broken it, than allowed yourself to become a mass murderer in an attempt to fulfill an oath you should never have sworn." Eru let that sink in for a few moments.

If Maedhros could have wept, he would. It had really been so easy? All he'd needed was trust? "Why didn't you tell me?" he screamed. "I wanted to stop, but I was too damn scared I'd doom my entire family to eternal darkness if I gave up on that bloody oath! Maglor nearly did stop. Why didn't someone tell me?"

"Maglor tried to tell you. You knew in your heart that he was right. You let your fears drive you into evil and madness, until you slew yourself in despair."

Maedhros floated silent in the light. He had no defense.

"I am also doing this because I love you, and all my children. I know you regret your actions that harmed so many, yourself not least among them. I do not like to see any child of mine destroy himself."

"How can you love me? I've become a monster as bad as the orcs."

"I love you, and I always will."

"I don't understand."

"You do not have to. Only know that it is so. Will you go, and undo the evil you have done?"

"I will go, my Lord," said Maedhros. "And I will try with all I am to make things better this time."

"Just do your best," said Eru, "and my blessings will go with you."

"Thank you," Maedhros whispered.

* * *

 **Chapter Two: From the Repeat, Taking the Second Ending**

Maedhros came to awareness slowly, blinking bleary eyes open to see his room in Formenos, in the gentle silver twilight of Telperien. Tears pricked his eyes. His head hurt, and he felt strange. He raised a hand to his head, wondering what had happened.

"Oh, thank Eru, you're awake," said Maglor's voice.

Maedhros turned his head to look at his younger brother, the only one who had remained with him to the end. Maglor looked so young and innocent. No sorrow past the edge of bearing darkened his eyes. Makalaure. He wasn't Maglor yet. And perhaps, Makalaure never would be. Assuming Maedhros didn't manage to wreck this chance, too.

"I'd better tell Healer Carniel. We've all been worried stiff about you."

"What happened?" croaked Maedhros.

"That's what we'd like to know. Curufinwe found you lying on the floor in the library five hours ago. You've been unconscious ever since."

"It's good to see you awake. How are you feeling?" asked Carniel, standing in the doorway.

Maedhros blinked at her. "I'm fine," he said slowly, coughing a little, and pushing himself up on one arm. The world swam.

"Don't lie to the healer, you silly fool," said Makalaure, poking him. "Your eyes are out of focus, and you can't even sit up properly."

Maedhros glared at his brother, but gave it up as a bad job when his elbow gave out, and he landed flat on the bed again. His right arm… he had two hands! He lifted his hands and stared at his right in shock. Two hands. Gingerly, he touched his right with his left. It was really there.

He looked up to find his brother and the healer staring at him like he'd grown an extra head. _No, just a decidedly not-extra hand._ He'd probably lost all his scars, too, and was back to being Maitimo, the well-formed-one, again. He closed his eyes, unable to take it all in.

"Stay with us, child," said Carniel.

Maedhros opened his eyes, and glared at her, _child indeed_. He'd bet she'd never killed anyone in her life. "How many fingers am I holding up?" she demanded.

"Two," said Maedhros. He wasn't that badly hurt. He'd been hurt far worse more than once, and he had the usual interrogation down pat.

"What is your name?"

"Maed-timo," he said, realizing that he'd better pay attention, or he could mess up royally.

"Ok. What is the date?"

Maedhros had no idea, beyond 'after Father got exiled, but before the Trees died'. He started to shake his head, then stopped, wincing. Maybe he'd better play up this injury, rather than playing it down. Better let them think him concussed than mad. He squeezed his eyes shut, and let his head rest against the pillow.

"You've a headache, I take it?"

Maedhros said nothing, letting his body relax, and the voices recede a little.

"I don't like how he keeps blurring in and out," said Carniel. "I wish Master Tatnis was here. This could be more than a simple concussion. Did he tell you how he came to fall?"

"He asked what happened, so I'm pretty sure he doesn't know."

"Has he ever had any unexplained falls, fits, or losses of consciousness before?"

"Not that I know of, although I heard that he got pretty clumsy when he was growing fastest." said Makalaure. "It's too bad that Father isn't here to ask. You could try asking Grandfather Finwe."

 _Father is gone, we're already at Formenos... that means the Trees haven't got much longer to live. Can I prevent that? How? When am I, exactly? Not having people think I'm mad be hanged, I need to know!_ Makalaure took Maedhros' right hand and squeezed it gently.

Maedhros opened his eyes. "How long has Father been gone?" he asked.

"You don't remember," said Makalaure.

"No," said Maedhros.

"He's been gone for five days," said Makalaure.

"Oh." No way to catch up with him, or to easily send the Valar a message, then.

"What's the last thing you remember?" asked Carniel.

Maedhros was silent a moment, trying to remember back the required centuries. "Manwe's messenger coming to summon Father to the Festival?"

"That was months ago!" yelped Makalaure in dismay.

Maedhros winced at the high pitch his brother had hit, and closed his eyes again.

"Some memory loss is common with a concussion like this," said Carniel. "It should improve in the days ahead."

"Will he be all right?" asked Makalaure.

"Provided this is no worse than it seems. Someone should stay with him at all times, and we need to wake him at intervals of at least every half hour. There is nothing wrong with his skull, but we need to make sure he's merely asleep rather than unconscious. He's probably going to be sleeping a lot over the next few days."

* * *

A/N 2: Yes, this is a 'go back in time to before the Darkening to attempt to fix things' story that stars a son of Feanor whose name begins with M. Beyond that, it shouldn't be too much like Kenobi Skywalkers' _Duplicity_. That's a good story, by the way. I hope they continue it.

A/N: Feanare, thank you for pointing out my mis-spelling Makalaure as Maccalaure. I have now fixed it.


	6. How Eonwe REALLY won the War of Wrath

**How Eonwe REALLY won the war of Wrath**

Melkor laughed as Eonwe's army hammered on his doors. He and Mairon had worked together to build and enchant them, and no mere maia was ever going to be able to overthrow them.

It was then that he saw the little scrap of white fur in the doorway. The little scrap of white fur with red eyes. It entered the hall. Hop. Hop-hop. Sniff. Hop.

"Stop it!" cried Melkor.

Confused, Mairon scrambled to obey, but the little beast jumped between his legs and hopped towards Melkor's throne. Melkor screamed and ran off through a side door.

In the resulting confusion, the orcs left the main doors unattended. Due to poor maintenance over the centuries, the bar broke, and the doors opened wide. The Army of the West streamed through them, overwhelming everything in its path and slaughtering anyone who did not surrender immediately.

Transformed into a bat and hanging from the ceiling, Mairon watched this, squeaked once, and lit out for greener pastures via the open doors.

Eonwe finally caught up with Melkor in one of the deepest caverns, gibbering in terror at the white scrap of fur guarding the cavern's entrance. Cowering, Melkor screamed for mercy. He found none. His enemies knocked his legs out from under him, and bound him with Angainor.

Eonwe leaned down, and stroked the rabbit's head. "Well done," he whispered as he picked it up. It snuggled happily there until he handed it off to one of Ingwion's soldiers.

Perhaps Melkor did find mercy, in the end. There are no rabbits in the void.

* * *

A/N1: Yes, it is the terrible bunny rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, by Monty Python. Morgoth obviously didn't have the holy hand grenade handy. Inspiration for this scrap of silliness can be partially blamed on Sevenhot-Feanorians, over on Deviantart, for drawing a chicken defeating Fingolfin. You can find it at .com. The one you want is called 'Tolkien Tuesday Sketch Dump'. I pointed out to the author of it that this suggested a chicken could do serious damage to Morgoth, and the conversation got sillier from then on.

A/N2: For those wondering which story won the contest, the most popular story was definitely _Of Inventions and Daddy Issues_. However, the one I most want to write is _DS al Fine_. That means I have decided to try writing both. Plus finish off a fictional article about the decline and fall of the Noldor. Glutton for punishment, aren't I? Things are being written, even if I haven't posted much recently.


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